Chapter 13.

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Curtains to the show that was set to take place had not been pulled back. They were still in a lonely silence, allowed to flow free from the top to the bottom. The unseemly influence of the charcoal that dripped in straight sharp lines, diluted — deluded into the blue of hopes, light and perched atop of a stray cloud pulled out too soon of it's chambers. In fury it turned the world a depth of the deep grey it had threatened with and in alarm the tiny hare's ran to their friends the deers in their burrows, tugging at their slender legs — would the show be over before it began?

One after the other, the children of the mother cloud yearned for her and turned up on to the frontier. Knocking on the world to wake up after the injustice that had been served to them. Their tears, in neat rows fell on the slanted roof tops and car windshields. Stars fought for the mightiest lover of theirs — it was an open infidelity, of them betraying the bright moon that held them together for the sake of the large Sun who dazzled them with it's bright looks. Yet they forgot — the moon never forgets, it has seen a lot. Worrisome winds tore the skies apart in their strength, and brought down to the world a fury of God — it would not rest until justice was served.

In their tiny huts made of brick and painted moss green to blend in with the juniper trees and conifers, men stared out at the national polo ground in worry. The flag, wet and torn down lay on the sofa behind them. The phones rung one after the other, alternate arrangements pulled through at the last minute — thank God for giving them enough brain to make two separate plans. The procession would proceed like it did every year, officials and locals alike would soon take to the ground, their families behind them as they settled on the cold benched. It was after all not every day that their country turned older. Waterproof tents were brought out of the storage and even as the bone chilling rain fell on their shoulders the rangers set it all up with the help of the men sent by the marquee owner.

Flagged cars rolled into the parking lot, the staff saluted as the minister — younger than them by at least ten years, stepped out of his car. The green and white flag on the right corner of the car fought and danced with strength, the harsh rain not of worry to it. Hands were shaken, words exchanged in silent whispers, secrets and relationships long forgotten resurfaced as the family followed behind on the carpet covered brick pathway. It was a show of power, the aristocratic stood out in neat lines — an intersection between them made as they sat on their cushioned seats.

Decked in a starchy white shalwar and a black sherwani that had round gold buttons, a pin like the flag of Pakistan pinned right above his heart — Arham played the part of being the chief minister with great detail. His hair were gelled back, the usually loose curls out of sight. He had taken out the gold hoops from his ears, taking away instantly the youthful look that they provided him with. The wet soil smelt like purity, it reminded him of the blood that had once flown rampant, dampening the ground just like water did. It had been years since the country was freed but still the cries of those that were martyred could be heard from the distance — if one was willing to keep their ears open that is.

He walked behind his father and the former ruling figures of the province — Asghar and Azmaray Khan. The three of them had in their own lives seen, fought and overcome challenges that he could never imagine passing. He applauded their strength, but then immediately thought of how powerful were the ones who had left, walked out of their lives and became unnamed. Lost their identities for their future generations — that was the epitome of selflessness, and how they were wasting those sacrifices that should have meant to them the absolute world.

"Thank you for joining us today, I hope you enjoy today's procession." Major Raheel shook hands with him, his grip crushing the bones of Arham's hands.

"It's our pleasure, thank you for inviting us."

His reply was curt, eyes raking the familiar facial features. Those eyes, the daunting hazel of them reminded him of days long gone. Arham held back the snide remark on his tongue, it was not like him to be petty. Giving another nod in his direction, Arham followed his father to the seating arrangements, taking seat to the left of him.

"What was Major Raheel saying?"

Alamgeer was interested in the conversation — being the only one that knew the past between his son and the man in his early forties. There was tension, thick enough that Alamgeer could have cut through it to reach the ears of his son.

"Nothing of importance," he sighed.

The event began with great pomp, the father and son losing their conversation in the middle. Their eyes were entrained on the colors in front. From the whites of the marching band, to the deep greens of the army uniform. Poetry written by names larger than life were recited with confidence, moving the heart from it's very core. Hearts and tears gained momentum, goosebumps littered the cool skins. It was gut wrenching as an old man, withered with age stepped over the stage, recalling the story of his grandparents — ones who had moved countries to save them. To give birth to a new life, searching for a better future. They had not given up, and in that was their biggest victory.

"Ae mard-e-momin teri shanakht namaz mein nahi sajda-e-dil mein hai,
Shaheen ki pehchan uski shaan nahi uraan mein hai." The man saluted the crowds, tears filled every eye, their hearts gripped in affection for their beloved country.
[O muslims your identity isn't in the prayer but in the bowing of your heart,
A hawk's identity is not in it's grandeur but in it's flight.]

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The estate grounds had been transformed over night. From the water logged patches and underground water pockets, the place was turned into a literal heaven. White streamers and balloons hung down from the tall tree branches, gold and silver lights wrapped around the damp bark. In the centre, a circular stage was placed with the backdrop of white hydrangeas and jasmines the only color in the entire place was from the natural — bleeding green trees and grass who were more vibrant than ever as a result of the constant rains. Pigeons and doves, from their enclosure were bought and freed in his honor — perhaps they knew too and continued to fly above the decorated lawn.

Dusk passed and the sun set, it dipped low and behind the tall mountain slopes. The shadows from the rocky, glacial terrains built up on the valley between two large hills. Music buzzed slow, starting with a soft violin turning to jazz as guests began to drive in. Dark blue skies — clear and low hanging like the roofs on tiny huts. The stars glimmered without fail and an illusion was served — that their hands could grip the stars if they reached out to. Blooming flowers filled the air with their pollen and perfumes, in the dark and white, the colors of everyone's dresses stood out. Through tiny perforations in the surrounding walls, children of the common man peeped inside — anything to catch a glimpse of those that were rendered untouchable.

Filza followed behind her parents into the ground, her arms wrapped around the pink box. She had carefully selected the gifts for the two, it was difficult albeit — what could one give thirty year olds who already had everything? Her manicured nails, painted a light lavender to go with the top of her saree, scratched the skin of her suddenly itchy ear lobe. The thick mother of pearl earring loosened from its clasp, a short squeal left her lips as she tried to catch it in her hands — all the while making sure the gift was secured.

The curtain bangs gelled and curled, rested on her cheekbones and the rest of her hair was thrown into a low bun, teased every few inches to add to the illusion of being messy and the gel gave it the wet look she had desired. Squared neckline of the lavender blouse, with a string of white pearl buttons ran down the back. Giving the audience a clear look at her soft skin, the puffed sleeves that ended above her elbows added to the aura of a princess she carried, her mouth painted into a soft grin — how ladylike of her, Baarish khanum had teased.

"I believe this belongs to you."

He cleared his throat, letting his eyes waver over the two colored saree she wore. Turquoise skirts and a purple blouse — the colors were made for her. She did the look plenty of justice but he knew his limits and what was forbidden. The smoked out eyeliner drew attention to her seemingly green eyes, in them the world's richest forest found resting — breathing in peace. Arham forwarded the pearl that had fallen at the staircase at the start of the garden. Their fingers brushed as she took it back shyly, her cheeks turning red like the rose he kept between the pages of his book.

"Thank you, Arham?"

Titling her head to one side, capriciously offering him a smile. Her attitude a sudden change from the past few days where she had ignored him — embarrassed to meet her.

"Yes. Arham Alamgeer. I think you can remember me by the hoops in my ears." He shrugged.

Filza nodded her head, zeroing in on the tiny hoop. Her hands now freed of the previous parcel, she extended her fingers to the ear lobe, touching the dangling hoop barely a few centimeters round. The tips of her fingers reddened as she accidentally scratched the skin of his neck. It was a devious need that filled her breath. She retracted her hand, apologizing for forgetting her boundaries. Arham only smiled in return — a ghost of it burnt on the edges of his lips. The longer he stared at her, the more she turned conscious of his gaze, moving back.

"S-sorry about that."

"Is this a trait of yours? Apologizing all day long?" Arham questioned.

His eyes were full of undetected humor, the sympathy in his face urging her to go on.

"Not really but around you I just - just get too nervous to act properly."

Filza blabbered on, the words of her feelings just on the tip of her rosy tongue. Her teeth sunk into her lips as she heard him laugh, suddenly in nervousness, her hands wrapped themselves around her frame, her heels digging into the soft soil. A part of her wanted to run away from him — far away into the other side, into a darkness where his burning gaze could no longer find him. Yet, there was a part of her — the sadistic part that wanted his gaze on her skin, to feel it douse in petrol — with his words and then set on fire with his words. She shivered as his hands raised and he leaned in, the dark shadow of the juniper in front of them, keeping them from the prying eyes.

"You're a funny little creature."

"I'm not funny. Nor am I a creature." Filza stood her ground, with new found confidence bubbling in her throat.

Her mind kept from giving in to the deep scent of his rose wood cologne. The violent attack on her senses pinched her periphery, taut and impossibly close. Sparks of attraction had claimed her body, she was just one of the many souls living inside of her now. Her legs clenched together, his thumb pulling — dragging back the hair from her lower lip, smudging some of her lipstick. She anticipated his lips on hers — fighting the soft moan that fell still, inaudible — she hoped.

"I have said it once, and I'll say it again Filza," he paused for affect — her name rolling off of his tongue tightened the knot of self inflicted pain, bringing her closer to a realm of instigated pleasure.

"Sa-say what?" She whispered.
Her eyes half shut from the nearness of their bodies.

"You're too young for me," he spoke, "and I fear what I'd do to you if you keep looking at me like that zarrgiya."

The latter half whispered to himself, his ears singing the tunes, his body begging for a relief from this self started fire.

Hello dudes and dudettes.

Do you feel the burn just as good as I do? Does it make you want to burrow yourself into the ground? Because same besties. Same.

Gaah! It only gets better from here!
Filza & Arham's chemistry tops anything I've ever posted on here.

Thoughts & Comments here.